


Without End, Through Ash and Dust

by navigator_noir (navigatorsghost)



Series: Vampire'verse [2]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One)
Genre: AU, Angst, Consensual, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Starvation, Vampirism, there are a lot of things wrong in this 'verse but that isn't one of them, vampire robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 16:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16622519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigatorsghost/pseuds/navigator_noir
Summary: Duty takes many forms, but all of them lead back to the same place. Cyclonus does what he can with what he has, Scourge tries to make it easier on him, and Galvatron... well, who knows what Galvatron's thinking. Mood/character piece, no significant plot.





	Without End, Through Ash and Dust

**Author's Note:**

> This is an interlude from a 'verse in which the Unicronian triad are obligate vampires, as a result of them having been built to run on Unicron's own fuel and not being able to consume ordinary energon at all. Following Unicron's death, they're making do by feeding off other TFs and rationing the supply of crystallised dark energon they've been able to scrape out of the fuel lines in what's left of Unicron's head... they're still going short of fuel all the time, not least because Galvatron's fuel demands are so specific he can only feed off Cyclonus or Scourge. Cyclonus is getting run ragged as a consequence, but he isn't quitting any time soon.
> 
> Title lifted from the 69 Eyes' _Eternal_ , because yes I am that pretentious.

Charr is a dark world, a broken world, an endless playground of shattered glories and fallen splendours. Cities that once spanned hundreds of leagues and towered to the skies lie cracked and sundered, their hollow shells empty of life or memory or record, everything that this world ever was long gone to the dust that wreathes the endless streets. Sunless, waterless, lifeless, Charr spins through an eternal twilight of moon and stars and dying sun in a long slow descent into oblivion.

Cyclonus walks the broken streets and climbs the fallen walls without fear, another shadow among the thousand that already lie in the city's dark places. He hesitates only when he reaches the open wall of Galvatron's throne room, and then only for a moment before stepping over shattered stone and looking for his lord.

The throne room must have been magnificent, once, and the great chair at its head is still intact and fits Galvatron as though it had been made for him. But now the throne is vacant: Galvatron stands at the far end of the hall, silhouetted against the dim light from the hollow socket of an empty window, turning with narrowed crimson optics as Cyclonus approaches him.

A roofless hall for a broken-crowned Emperor, the absolute monarch of a kingdom of dust. Cyclonus shivers at the sight of him here amid the fallen walls, because his deepest instincts tell him that this is fitting, this is _right_. Something deep inside him is eased by this, somewhere he seldom dares to acknowledge, where the love of ruin was stitched into his core directives by Unicron himself. Perfection only cries out to be destroyed... but Galvatron, and this world, and indeed Cyclonus himself, are just broken _enough_ to have earned the right to survive.

And why else is he here now, if not for the sake of that survival? He moves closer, since Galvatron hasn't bidden him stay back, dipping his head in a bow as he does so. "Mighty one..."

"Cyclonus." Galvatron's voice is low, weary, _hungry_ , and Cyclonus feels shivers run through him to his core. No further word, no command, follows - just his name, in that voice, and that alone is enough. Cyclonus stops within arm's reach of his lord, goes down to one knee, tilts his head up in surrender. And waits.

He never knows quite what will happen, even though he does this so often. Sometimes Galvatron is on him in an astrosecond, all savagery and hunger. Sometimes he can be almost gentle, bestowing praise and caresses in exchange for the life Cyclonus lays at his feet. Not that it matters. Cyclonus will accept anything or nothing from Galvatron's hand for this - the duty he comes to fulfil is in itself its own reward.

This time, Galvatron kneels with him and pulls him close, embracing him, and he claims Cyclonus's lips with his own rather than going straight to his throat. Cyclonus opens his mouth and arches his back, reaching up to clutch at his lord's shoulders, gone instantly weak to his spark at the golden-fire taste of Galvatron's mouth and the strength in Galvatron's grip. Every core imperative and instinct he has points in one direction - his function and his duty, his honour and his glory, are centred and contained in being _whatever Galvatron needs from him_. To have that acknowledged and accepted and _rewarded_ with this, with pleasure like this and the knowledge that his lord finds him not just useful or valuable but _desirable-!_

And this isn't even a brief kiss; this is deep and hard and almost unendurably sweet, Galvatron's hands on his back pulling him so close that he can feel the plasma-fire heat that's always there glowing under Galvatron's plating even when the warlord barely has a drop of fuel left in his tanks, Galvatron's glossa slipping past Cyclonus's fangs to lick possessively to the back of his throat. Cyclonus hears himself moan, all shameless surrender, and shivers hotly at Galvatron's answering growl. He ventures to lick in turn at the beautiful, diamond-hard razor edges of Galvatron's fangs, opening his own glossa on them with barely an effort required; spilling energon and mechfluid where Galvatron can take and taste, wordlessly offering what he has to his lord.

He feels Galvatron tense at the first taste, his glossa twining around Cyclonus's in a sudden whiplash tug born from pure hunger and desire. The Herald's aura darkens, black flame licking around him, as the unquenchable appetite that lurks in the depths of all their sparks awakens in him, responding to Cyclonus's gift, demanding _more_. Cyclonus shudders as the matching piece of his own spark flares to life, his own shadows rising in his aura to echo Galvatron's - but in submission, not challenge, his energies as they mingle with Galvatron's as much of an offering as his fuel. _Take me, my lord, please, I'm yours..._

Tangled subroutines, linked by rogue branches of code; the sense-memory of Galvatron's fangs in his scarred throat _shouldn't_ send an electrostatic thrill through his linkage arrays, but it _does_. Charged energies tingle over the ports and cables hidden under the heavy armour of his chestplate, an itch that he can't scratch and that makes him moan and arch up against Galvatron, wanting more than he has words for even as he gladly offers everything he can. Galvatron growls against his mouth, almost a purr, somehow reassuring even as his voice resonates with the harmonics of possession and command. _Yes, mine: mine to reward, mine to take-!_

Galvatron's mouth slides from Cyclonus's, down over the edge of his jaw; Cyclonus tilts his head back, exposing the sleek metal of his throat with its thin-worn patches of bright silver where Galvatron's fangs have pierced him too many times. Too many and _never enough_ \- Cyclonus gasps as his lord bites down, diamond fangs sliding through already weakened metal and into the fuel line beneath. Heat and lightning arc down his backstrut and through his core systems, and he shudders at the bliss of feeling his own life and essence drawn from him to slake Galvatron's thirst. Galvatron drains him fast and hard enough to make his sensors phase and it feels like falling in zero-g, like cutting his thrusters in the deeps of space and letting himself drift inexorably towards the nearest source of gravity.

And the pressure of Galvatron's mouth on his throat has the pull of a black hole and so that's where he falls to, the world fading away around him as his peripheral systems rapidly start to shut down. He didn't have his tanks full to begin with, and Galvatron's need is greater than his. Even so, with the last of what he has he urges his flickering, fading aura to shimmer over Galvatron's plating, pouring the final drops of his own energy through his fingertips and into Galvatron's transform seams. Even with Galvatron's hunger literally draining him dry, Cyclonus is still looking for ways to offer him more.

His reward, though he's already falling too deep into the dark to really know it, is Galvatron cradling him to lower his empty frame almost tenderly to the ground, and a kiss to his numb and parted lips before the last of his awareness is gone.

***

When he wakes up, it's to find himself lying - fittingly enough - at the foot of Galvatron's throne, supported by Scourge, who has both their chestplates open and is linked to him by the fuel line connectors that neither of them even bother to remove from their core lines any more. As soon as he can move Cyclonus reaches up and unhooks the line-splice, then leans in to Scourge's throat. Scourge shivers as Cyclonus's fangs slide into him but holds him close, letting him drink. To the Pit with splices and siphons, this is better.

"You all right?" Scourge asks after a minute.

"Of course." He's starving and Scourge's life-fluid tastes like heaven even though he's trying to go slow, aware that Scourge won't have all that much fuel to spare. "Say when..."

"I'm fine."

The unacknowledged Unicronian faction motto and battlecry: _I can take it._ Cyclonus sighs quietly and licks Scourge's wounded throat, tasting the raw metal that, like his own, never gets time to truly heal before it's being opened up again; Scourge makes a small, wanting noise and holds him tighter. And that makes it all right, yet again.

"I'm done," Cyclonus reassures him, and doesn't bite again even when Scourge arches against him and presses his throat to Cyclonus's mouth. "That was enough."

"I thought you knew you're a bad liar," Scourge retorts. "But all right." He looks down at Cyclonus and Cyclonus stretches up and attacks his mouth instead, sublimating one hunger into the other, tugging on Scourge's glossa with his own. Scourge makes a muffled noise and kisses him back, and it helps.

Even if Cyclonus does momentarily shudder at the thought of Scourge's claws under his chestplate, sharp points and fingertip static-generators teasing at the aches left behind where Galvatron _didn't_ choose to take him... and then he jumps in earnest as the brief fantasy phases into reality. There's a sharp, sweet, scratching caress being laid upon his lasercore shielding that definitely isn't his imagination.

May Unicron's ghost bless Scourge for guessing at his need and not making him _ask_. He presses up into the touch, letting a stifled moan escape into the kiss the two of them are still sharing; the sound Scourge makes in reply isn't much different, and just as eager. //You want it?// Scourge asks hoarsely, as his claws trail static across Cyclonus's exposed circuitry. //Cyclonus?//

He's drained enough that his systems greedily soak up even that tiny trace of energy, and he feels Scourge shiver at the sudden voltage drop across his fingertips. //Always,// Cyclonus tells him, and it isn't a lie, it never will be. Despite everything, despite the universe breaking around them, the three of them belong to each other and Cyclonus will never refuse anything that draws them closer together.

Least of all this. Scourge breaks the kiss but only so he can nuzzle along Cyclonus's jaw and then down onto his throat. Cyclonus willingly arches his head back and moans again, louder, when Scourge's glossa finds and presses carefully against the raw-pierced marks of Galvatron's fangs. "Scourge..."

"I've got you." Scourge licks harder, his own desire flickering hot in his fields. "Here."

His claws press deeper into Cyclonus's internals, bridging microcircuits and scratching metal in tiny flares of sparks and stray charge, and Cyclonus shudders in pleasure. It almost hurts to feel desire when his power levels are so low that he can't realistically do anything with it, but that isn't what this is about. This is about _them_ , about the darkness in their sparks that binds them together, about the taste of each other's energon and the touch of each other's hands. It's the last echo of what they had before the universe was broken, and Cyclonus shivers at the memories of _then_ even as he aches with the hunger and weariness and the never-enough of _now_. "Mmmh..."

Scourge dials up the output on his fingertip generators, sparks biting into Cyclonus's exposed circuits and charge draining between them in a slow, careful stream - giving what he can spare, just like always. Cyclonus grips his wingmate's wrist, pulling that touch deeper into himself, wanting, _wanting_... He doesn't ask for _more_ , that would be ungrateful when he knows there's no more to be had, but he knows Scourge will understand. _If there was more, I would ask for it, and if you could give it to me, I know you would._

And as if to prove exactly how much he does understand, Scourge turns his head and kisses him again, filling Cyclonus's mouth with his glossa and sending an exquisite flare of dark fire up Cyclonus's spinal strut. //Cyc...//

He accepts, sucks on Scourge's glossa and lets his fangs graze Scourge's lip. Scourge shudders in pleasure, and his claws on Cyclonus's shoulder dig in hard enough to leave silver scars in their wake. Cyclonus gasps into the kiss at the pain, the threadbare haze of his aura shimmering with _yes_ and _want_. //Scourge...//

And they break apart, because they have to, because neither of them has enough power to spare to follow where that touch wants to lead. They can't have what their sparks and frames ache for, so they make do, as always. Cyclonus meets his friend's optics and Scourge holds his gaze for a moment before looking away and slipping his fingers out of Cyclonus's circuitry, out of his grip. The hand on Cyclonus's shoulder, at least, stays where it is.

"Did you see where he went this time?" the tracker asks, changing the subject - and yet not really changing it at all - as Cyclonus tactfully and silently closes up his chestplate.

"I wasn't in any condition to notice," Cyclonus says wryly. "Did you?"

"No, but..." There's a pause as Scourge stares into the distance in a direction that, to Cyclonus, looks no different to any other. "Eh. He's at the cenotaph again." Scourge shrugs.

The cenotaph is one of Charr's thousands of nameless monuments, a tall needle of stone and rusted iron commemorating who-knows-what alien triumph or tragedy. Cyclonus doesn't know why Galvatron favours it as a spot to think, but the warlord can often be found brooding there, so Cyclonus simply nods. "Then I see no reason to disturb him." _We both need to be touched_ isn't a reason.

If it was, they'd never get _anything_ done.

Scourge gets to his feet. "Back to base, then?"

Cyclonus nods. "Come on."

One day, one mission, one mouthful of fuel, one stolen touch at a time. They survive like this, all three of them, because the alternative is unacceptable.

They've already lost everything once. They won't lose each other as well.


End file.
